


When The Dogs Came

by thecomedownchampion, Weak



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Lydia is basically Carrie, Season/Series 02, Telekinesis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecomedownchampion/pseuds/thecomedownchampion, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weak/pseuds/Weak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps if she had lost the genetic lottery, grown up with a face and body that incited revulsion instead of desire, she might have faded into the background like a distant stain that blends in with patterned wallpaper. An extra in a movie whose face is forgotten only moments after having seen it. </p><p>But Lydia did befriend Allison and she was beautiful. She stood out and caught the attention of Stiles Stilinski, who she wasn’t cruel enough to, and now she paid the price in full, with interest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> Part one is mostly a summary of the beginning of Season 2 from Lydia's perspective, with minor differences.

Lydia Martin could pinpoint the exact moment her life went to hell and she didn’t need to plot any points on a datasheet to do so. It was the night the video store clerk was killed. Her memories of that night are fuzzy, like threadbare cotton pulled over her eyes, dulled by the fog of lorazepam. But she remembers the sound of glass breaking, and screaming as she had one piercing thought:

_JACKSON!_

And Jackson was fine of course. Fine as he would never be again because curiosity didn’t kill just cats. It killed teenagers and turned them into monsters that killed even more, stacking upon each other one by one as the death toll climbed like gas prices, a collapsing economy of American youth. Beacon Hills had fallen into recession; the town was losing more than it was making and as time went by it didn’t look like that was changing anytime soon.

Lydia could have blamed it on any number of people. The most linear train of thought led to Jackson; poor, insecure Jackson who just couldn’t let it alone. He had to pursue Scott McCall and Derek Hale. But she knew that she would have been dragged into this, kicking and screaming, with or without Jackson Whittemore. If she wanted to trace the toxin to its origin, she could blame Derek Hale, whose very existence was plagued with death at every turn. Frightened, lonely Derek who tried oh so hard to play the part of the adult when he was still little more than a child himself, his emotional growth stunted like a teenager who smoked too many cigarettes, except his lungs were filled not with tobacco and nicotine but the ashes of his family that burned alive six years ago.

But if Lydia thought about it, _really_ thought about it (and she didn’t need to. She was smart enough to know), the blame fell on Stiles Stilinski. Because Stiles was the most curious cat of all, and in the worst twist of irony, his own words aped back at him, death didn’t happen to Stiles; it happened to everyone around him. A boy hears about a body in the woods, curious, ever curious, and has to go look himself. But he doesn’t go alone, oh no, he brings along his best friend. And of course, fate would have it that that best friend is bitten by a werewolf. And of course, the best way for an interested party to get to Scott without going through Allison and bringing down the wrath of the Argents is to get to Stiles, and the best way to get to Stiles is through

(you fool you desperate fool how could you do this to me)

the subject of his long-term infatuation, Lydia Martin.

Retrospectively, part of Lydia wished a lot of things. She wished that she had never become friends with Allison Argent, who would become so entrenched in the world of werewolves and hunters. She wished that instead of treating him with indifference, she had been truly wretched to Stiles Stilinski, made sure that she was something he could never feel affection for. Stamp on his heart and crush it beneath her heel in one deft stroke. Perhaps if she had lost the genetic lottery, grown up with a face and body that incited revulsion instead of desire, she might have faded into the background like a distant stain that blends in with patterned wallpaper. An extra in a movie whose face is forgotten only moments after having seen it.

But Lydia _did_ befriend Allison and she _was_ beautiful. She stood out and caught the attention of Stiles Stilinski, who she wasn’t cruel enough to, and now she paid the price in full, with interest.

 

 

From the _Beacon Hills Gazette_ article on February 19, 2011:

 

BEACON HILLS — Though this past Saturday was bound to be a night to remember, the promise was kept in a manner that struck horror into the hearts of students and faculty alike at Beacon Hills High School as a student was attacked at the winter formal dance. Lydia Martin, 16, reportedly went outside to get some air without her date when she was mauled by an animal on the lacrosse field. She was later found unconscious by another student, Jackson Whittemore, 16, who carried her back to the school and had his peers call for an ambulance. Miss Martin was rushed to Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital where she was treated for her wounds and remains under observation, but in stable condition.

This incident brings into question the safety of the town once more after the series of animal attacks that took place short weeks ago…

 

 

From the investigation of Lydia Martin’s attack:

 

Q: Hello, Lydia. My name is Sheriff Stilinski. How are you feeling?

A: Like I was attacked by—what are you all claiming it was?—a mountain lion.

Q: Can I get you anything? Water, juice…?

A: Why don’t we just cut to the chase? The sooner this is over with, the sooner I’ll have one less Stilinski to worry about. I know that you’re here to interrogate me.

Q: Is my son bothering you?

A: Right now everyone bothers me. But to answer your question, no, you don’t have to make him leave.

Q: Thanks. How much do you remember about the night you were attacked?

A: Are you familiar with the amygdala, Sheriff?

Q: Can’t say I am.

A: It’s a small node inside your brain. There are two of them; one on either side of your hypothalamus, right next to the hippocampus. They process memories with high emotional response, particularly fear, and store them for future reference. When you experience a stimulus similar to one linked with that emotional memory, the amygdalae send a signal to the hypothalamus to start producing hormones such as epinephrine in preparation for physical response. One of the psychological effects of epinephrine includes the retrograde enhancement of long-term memory.

Q: Miss Martin, while this is all fascinating, I’m not here for an anatomy lesson.

A: The point, Sheriff, is that I remember everything. My anatomy made sure of it.

Q: Fair enough. What were you doing out on the lacrosse field that night?

A: Looking for my ex-boyfriend, Jackson. Shouldn’t have bothered.

Q: I thought Stiles was your date.

A: He was.

(pause)

Q: Okay, moving on. What happened next?

A: The lights started coming on one by one like there was a game. I thought that Jackson was doing it as either some grand romantic gesture or to humiliate me. Then I saw someone walking out of the woods. The lights were blinding me, so I thought it was him.

Q: Was it?

A: No. I didn’t know this man at all. I’d never even seen him before.

Q: Is he the one who attacked you?

A: Yes.

Q: The wounds you received—

A: You asked me what I remember of that night and I am telling you. There was no mountain lion. I don’t think there ever was.

Q: Can you give me a description of the man?

A: He had dark hair and green eyes. He was in his late thirties.

Q: Would you be able to pick him out of a line?

A: Yes.

Q: I think I’ve got everything I need. Thank you for your time, Miss Martin. I hope you feel better soon.

 

 

Lydia watched with practiced disinterest as Stiles Stilinski entered her hospital room. Concern was written all over his features with thick permanent marker. His brown eyes searched hers and he drew his lower lip between his teeth as he walked over to sit on the edge of her bed.

“You didn’t tell him about me,” Stiles said.

“And you were eavesdropping on an official investigation.” Lydia narrowed her eyes at him and he didn’t even have to grace to look guilty.

“Why didn’t you tell him?” he asked instead.

“Why was Jackson the one to find me?” Lydia demanded. “Where were _you_ and how did you know that man?”

Stiles’ face fell and he half raised his hand, like he was going to reach out to her, before he let it fall back to his lap in an ashamed heap. “I’m sorry.”

Lydia could have extended her cruelty to Stiles then, but it already would have been too late. The damage was done. She said to him, “I’m tired,” and he wished her a good sleep before leaving her be.

 

 

A timeline of the disappearance and recovery of Lydia Martin:

 

February 20, 2011

[6:21 PM] – Mr. Martin visits his daughter, Lydia, at the hospital

[6:59 PM] – Mr. Martin exits the room to give his daughter privacy while she takes a shower

[7:12 PM] – Lydia is heard screaming; Nurse Melissa McCall, Mr. Martin, and Przemyslaw Stilinski respond by rushing to her aid

[7:13 PM] – McCall, Martin, and Stilinski discover an empty bathroom with the shower still running; the window is open

[7:15 PM] – Beacon County Sheriff’s Department (BCSD) is notified of Lydia Martin’s apparent disappearance

[7:23 PM] – BCSD arrives at Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital to begin a sweep of the premises

[7:48 PM] – Deputies complete searching the hospital; Miss Martin remains missing

[7:54 PM] – A search grid is made and the neighbourhood watch is notified

[8:32 PM] – BCSD deputies and neighbourhood watch set out in search parties

[11:59 PM] – Miss Martin remains missing; search parties retire for the night

February 21, 2011

[9:00 AM] – Search parties expand grid and resume looking for Lydia Martin

[12:08 PM] – K-9 unit is brought in to aid the search

[10:29 PM] – Miss Martin remains missing; search parties and K-9 unit retire for the night

February 22, 2011

[9:00 AM] – Search parties and K-9 unit resume looking for Lydia Martin

[8:41 PM] – BCSD is called to respond to an attack on an ambulance

[8:55 PM] – Miss Martin appears from the woods at the scene of the ambulance attack; medical professionals provide first aid

[8:57 PM] – Martin family is notified of Lydia’s recovery and she is brought to the hospital

 

 

A lot of people would ask Lydia Martin what happened while she was missing; she was gone for two days after all. They wondered why she left the hospital and why she didn’t think to put any clothes on first. The truth was that Lydia didn’t know. She remembered washing her hair, careful of the bites on her side, and after a while she looked down to see that the bathtub was filling with water. The water was black with murk and she reached down to clear the blockage in the drain, fingers bringing up handfuls of dark hair. She gagged as she kept finding more and more clumps of it until an arm covered in mottled, burned flesh reached out of the depths and seized her wrist. Lydia screamed in terror, and that’s the last thing she could remember before she came to in the woods, cold, naked, and alone, with the sound of sirens and voices in the distance. But of course, she didn’t tell anyone that.

At the hospital, after she was found, a doctor checked over Lydia to make sure she wasn’t injured further by exposure to the elements. Remarkably, she only had mild frostbite on her feet and in her fingers and she was only a little dehydrated and malnourished. Her extremities were soaked in a lukewarm bath and gradually warmed, bringing blood back to oxygen-starved tissue, and she was given a drip-feed to replenish her water and glucose levels. She was kept at the hospital overnight before being discharged the next afternoon when she was confirmed to be on the way to a swift recovery.

Lydia’s parents offered to let her stay home for the rest of the week, but she declined. To use a cliché, it was like ripping off a bandaid; better to get it over with quick and easy. And Lydia was sick of being weak. She didn’t want to need a bandaid anymore. Humans are no different from wild dogs. Lydia learned that when she was in kindergarten and Bethany Morrison pushed Julia Winters off of a swing during recess. Julia cut her knee and began to cry. Bethany called her a crybaby and her friends laughed, and then everyone was laughing. After that, kids tried to see if they could make Julia Winters cry too. They did. Julia Winters sat in the back row of Lydia’s AP Calculus class.

People seek out weakness. They sniff it out like a dog detecting the scent of an abscessing wound on a pack-mate’s leg. They prod at it, make it fester, easy pickings for bigger predators that don’t exist, improving their own chances of survival. Lydia refused to become the dog with the putrefying leg. She would bite at their hackles and show them who is top bitch.

So when morning came, her dress turned into chainmail and her heels were combat boots. She wore eye shadow and mascara for war paint and her lipstick tasted of blood.

“Are you ready for this?” Allison Argent asked her outside the doors of the high school with that sweet, earnest smile.

Lydia raised her eyebrows, loaded a bullet between her teeth, and fired. “ _Please_. It’s not like my aunt’s a serial killer.” She whipped around and pulled open the door, stepping inside without waiting for Allison’s reaction. The moment she was inside the school, everyone stopped and stared, but they weren’t staring with the adoration of loving disciples. No, they were staring at her like dogs and the scent of pus and infection wafted over them regardless of the perfume at her throat.

(you’re not a bitch you’re just a dog a weak and dying dog)

Lydia froze, her heart jumping rapidly in her breast and she daren’t blink as her eyes moved about, cataloging their positions and waiting for one of them to lunge at her.

Allison leaned toward her and murmured, “Maybe it’s the nine pounds.”

(fuck them let them stare i’ll show them)

Lydia flicked the hair from her forehead, steeling her expression, and walked down the hall with her head held high. She would show them.

 

 

“I’m not responsible for you.”

 

 

The hand came out of nowhere, gripping tight around her arm. Lydia’s breath hitched and she was dragged around the corner of the hallway.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Jackson demanded.

Lydia jerked her arm from his grip, glaring. “ _What?!_ ”

“Show it to me,” he said. He reached toward her side, where flesh healed beneath her clothes. “Show it to me. Come on.”

Lydia slapped his hand away, traitorous fear sparking in her chest. “Are you out of your _mind?_ ”

Jackson was staring at her like a science experiment. “Nothing happened to you,” he said. “It’s like… It’s like y-you’re immune.”

Lydia leaned in, whispering ferociously, “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.” Fury overcame Jackson’s features and he grabbed her shoulder, pushing it into the wall. Lydia gasped with shock and fright.

“It’s you.” He pointed a finger in her face accusingly. “Whatever it is—blood, saliva—whatever soul-killing substance is running through your veins, _you_ did this to me! You ruined it for me.” For a moment, it seemed like Jackson was about to leave, but then he came close, yelled, “You ruined _everything!_ ”

There was a rattling sound, combination padlocks jerking against locker doors, and Jackson walked away. Wide-eyed, Lydia fought to calm herself down, pulling air in and out of her lungs. It wasn’t working. She fled to the bathroom and locked herself into a stall as the tears overflowed. She sat on the edge of a toilet seat and dabbed at her eyes carefully with tissue paper

(stop crying don’t be a crybaby don’t lick your wounds don’t let them see)

as a fluorescent bulb flickered overhead.

There was the creak of the door opening and Lydia immediately silenced her sobs. “Hello?” she called.

A shadow drew near, accompanied by the light slap of bare feet against the concrete floor. The feet, when they appeared, were masculine and covered with dirt.

“This is the girls’ room,” she informed their owner in a

(stop it stop it stop it)

faltering voice. The light had stopped flickering.

After a moment’s pause, the feet stepped back, walking away. Lydia stood abruptly and threw open the latch on the door to find an empty bathroom. She hurried to the door, looked around the empty halls… There! A man dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, feet bare, was climbing the stairs. She wasn’t sure why, but Lydia felt compelled to follow. She trailed him in the long hallway in front of the principal’s office, light pouring in through the windows along the opposite wall. The man descended the short flight of stairs to the adjacent hallway to stand in front of the athletic awards. Something about the man was vaguely familiar, his posture, his hair. He raised a hand to the glass in front of the display case, and his head remained turned toward it as he left down another hall, keeping his face hidden. All at once, Lydia rushed down the stairs to the display case, trying to figure out which trophy he’d been looking at. Her eyes fixed on a basketball trophy.

_Peter Hale_

_Captain_

All at once, Lydia placed where she recognized the man from. Images of a figure walking toward her across the lit up lacrosse field flashed before her eyes. Lydia closed her eyes

(please don’t be him please don’t oh no)

and a tear trailed down her cheek. Her heart beat a staccato rhythm against her ribcage. Down the hall, a light flickered brightly in a stuttering swan song before fizzling into darkness. It would need replacing.

 

 

Graffiti written with whiteout in a bathroom stall in one of the girls’ rooms of Beacon Hills High School:

_I wonder how many teachers Lydia Martin had to suck off to get her GPA._

 

 

After school, Lydia went to Allison Argent’s house, and in the evening they were picked up by Scott McCall and Stiles Stilinski to go ice skating. The rink was closed, but Stiles managed to get the keys from the Zamboni driver, a boy at their school who Lydia didn’t know. Stiles sat next to Lydia on the bleachers overlooking the ice rink as they exchanged their shoes for skates.

Lydia shivered in her thin sweater, pushing down the sleeves. “Could it be any colder in here?”

Stiles immediately dug into his backpack, retrieving an orange shirt. “Here!” He extended the shirt to her, big dark eyes hopeful.

Lydia stared at him with a deadpan expression, glancing from the shirt to herself before meeting his eyes. “I’m wearing blue. Orange and blue? Not a good combination.” She went back to tying her skates.

“But it’s the colours of the Mets!” Stiles protested.

Lydia raised her eyebrows at him.

Stiles raised his hands in surrender, drawing back with the shirt and shoving it back into his bag. His posture spelled out blatant disappointment. Lydia ignored it; she was an expert in ignoring people, particularly foolish teenage boys with hopeless crushes. Next, Stiles pulled out a package of Reese’s, holding it out in silent offering. Lydia stared at it for a moment before shrugging. A shirt was one thing, but chocolate was more difficult to pass up, even if it resulted in Stiles’ triumphant grin that he couldn’t quite repress. Lydia was deftly tearing back the brown paper cup around the chocolate when Stiles sighed and spoke again.

“Okay, um… maybe orange and blue’s not the best.” He paused, gathering courage. Lydia took a bite of the peanut butter cup. “But, you know, um, sometimes there’s other things that you wouldn’t think would be a good combination and, uh, turn out to be like a perfect combination, you know? Like two people together who nobody ever thought would be together… ever.”

Lydia wasn’t stupid. She may put on an act for the student body of Beacon Hills High School, but beneath the bubbly persona was a buzzing intellect. Stiles Stilinski was cute. Dark eyes, expressive brows, full lips. The upturned nose and the moles that flecked his skin like a high-speed splash pattern were endearing, and his hair, buzzed short, didn’t look bad on him. Stiles had screamed Lydia’s name, running full tilt toward her when the man

(peter hale)

approached her on the lacrosse field, had kept vigil during her hospital stay. But a nagging part of Lydia whispered that somehow, this was Stiles’ fault. The man never would have approached her if it hadn’t been for Stiles. And a smaller, guiltier part thought of Jackson.

“I can see that,” said Lydia, nodding thoughtfully.

Stiles searched her features, lips parted in quiet astonishment. “You can?”

“Yeah!”

And Stiles was turning to face her, hopeful, so hopeful…

And Lydia said, “They’re cute together!” fixing her eyes on Scott McCall and Allison Argent, who sat in the row in front of them, giggling happily as they tied their skates.

Stiles licked his lips, eyes narrowing as he followed Lydia’s line of sight to his best friend and his girlfriend, now getting up to go out on the ice.

“Ah, yeah, them,” he said, turning back to Lydia.

“Cute.” Lydia shoved the last of her Reese’s cup into her mouth.

“Cute,” Stiles agreed in an embittered tone. “Adorable.” He grimaced, yanking the laces of his skates tight.

 

 

From the journal of Allison Argent:

 

I sometimes wonder how things might have been different had I been a more attentive friend to Lydia. I was so caught up in everything that had happened. My aunt dying, finding out that she killed the Hales, finding out that werewolves exist and my boyfriend was one of them. Stiles has been crushing on her for years and he never did anything. But I’m making excuses for myself. Even my father, who didn’t really know Lydia at all, knew that things weren’t quite right with her. To be frank, I’m disgusted with myself. The evidence was staring me in the face all along and I never just reached out and asked if she was really okay. And when it became obvious that she wasn’t, I ignored it, told myself I had more important things to worry about. I’m a terrible best friend…

 

 

Lydia’s skates cut smooth arcs into the ice as muscle memory guided her legs, recalling the figure skating lessons she had taken years ago. She extended a leg and brought it in sharply, propelling her into a rapid centered spin. She grinned with exhilaration as she saw Stiles standing still on the ice, gaping at her in awe. She glided over and stopped in front of him with an expectant smile.

“Well?” she said. “Come on.” She grabbed Stiles’ hand, bringing him along with her as Allison struggled to teach her boyfriend to skate. Stiles’ hand was warm in hers.

After a few minutes, Lydia drifted away from him again to practice camel spins and rocker turns. A flicker of violet caught her eye and Lydia stopped, kneeling down to pick up what appeared to be a flower petal. She turned it between her fingertips with puzzlement. What on earth was a flower petal doing on the ice rink in February? Looking up, Lydia found a trail of violet flowers and petals, like roses in a romantic cliché. She followed them to where a small branch sprouted from the ice and knelt down, staring baffled at the flowered stem. As her eyes drifted to the side, she saw a shadow beneath the ice shavings, and extended a hand to brush the snow away. Beneath the ice was a man

(peter hale peter hale PETER HALE PETER HALE)

and all at once his eyes opened and his hands slammed against the ice, mouth dropping open in a silent cry as he thrashed about.

(let me out let me out LET ME OUT)

Lydia shrieked, bloodcurdling, and clawed at the ice, screaming over and over. Stiles clutched at her shoulders and she could vaguely hear him calling her name as he tried to pull her close and calm her down, but she couldn’t, oh she couldn’t, because it was _him_ and her heart was ramming against her bones like the bars of a cage. Overhead, a lightbulb smashed, followed by another. And _another_ …

 

 

Lydia knew what posttraumatic stress disorder was. She knew that she was exhibiting symptoms of it: flashbacks, panic, nightmares, hypervigilance. She didn’t have it though. She couldn’t. Lydia wasn’t weak. She wasn’t a dog with a wounded leg. She was a leader. She was strong and she would show them, make sure they never forgot it.

A knock on the door and an exasperated sigh. “Time to get up!”

“Go away…” Lydia said.

“You’re going to be late for your appointment with the school counselor. Remember? We have a deal,” said Mrs. Martin.

“Remember? I told you I was fine,” she protested.

“Lydia, _please_.” Her mother pulled back the blankets and gasped in horror as she took in the sight of the bloodstained sheets. Lydia sat up and her mother reached for her, crying, “What did you do?” She took Lydia’s wrists, found the knuckles of her daughter’s left hand cut and embedded with glass. Lydia looked up, dazed, and her eyes caught sight of the round mirror on her dresser, smashed into spider web cracks with a crimson centre. “Lydia, sweetheart, why did you do that?” her mother asked, face drawn with dismay.

Lydia shook her head, eyes welling with tears.

(weak)

 

 

Graffiti on a desk in the English department of Beacon Hills High School:

_The bigger they are the harder they fall._

 

 

Lydia sat stiffly in her chair out front of the guidance office. Next to her was a boy with black hair and green eyes. He wore dark jeans tucked into brown, laced boots. Lydia knew he was looking at her. She ignored him, legs crossed and pink gloved hands folded over her knee as she stared straight ahead with determination.

“Nice gloves,” the boy said.

“Thank you,” she replied immediately. She turned a sweet smile on him, swaying a little in her seat, before looking away again.

“So,” he continued, “what’s your brand of psychosis?”

The smile faded in an instant and Lydia felt her eye twitch as she slowly turned to him. “Really?”

“We’re both here for something; we don’t have to be ashamed of it.”

Lydia’s mouth was full of glass, sharp and dangerous, and she said to the boy shortly, “I have an acute phobia of people prying into my personal life.” She paused for a moment to let her words settle in. “You?”

The boy drew back, looking at the floor for a moment. “Compulsively drawn to cute but narcissistic girls.”

Lydia’s lips parted with incredulity, and as her name was called to enter the guidance office, she grabbed her bag and stood up quickly, marching into the room without sparing the boy another glance. The counselor, Marin Morrell, gestured for Lydia to sit in a chair across from her desk. Lydia ignored the motivational posters on the walls and scrutinized the woman in front of her. She was pretty; long, straight black hair and mocha skin. She was likely in her thirties.

“You’re not even French, are you?” said Lydia.

“French-Canadian,” said Ms. Morrell.

“Which means you’re Canadian… who speaks French.” Lydia narrowed her eyes momentarily before leaning back. “And seeing as I’m placing my mental health in your hands, how about you tell me what, as a _French_ teacher, qualifies you to be a guidance counselor.” She gave Morrell a tight-lipped smile.

“I have a Master’s in behavioural psychology and I’ve done over three hundred hours of fieldwork,” Morrell deadpanned.

Lydia made a soft sound of acknowledgment. “Ca va bien.”

“If you’re really fine, what are you doing here?”

“Appeasing my parents so they don’t take away my car keys.” She gave Morrell a smug look.

“Have you talked to your friends about what happened to you?”

“Yeah. They’re great. _Totally_ supportive.”

“Do you trust them?”

“Implicitly!”

“Good.” Morrell smiled. “But still be cautious.”

“Why?” Lydia’s voice hardened. “Because sometimes the people closest to you can be the ones holding you back the most?”

Morrell looked up at her, a frown between her eyebrows. “Indeed. Did you read that somewhere?”

“I don’t know… Maybe I heard it.”

“Well, sounds like whoever said it left an impression.”

Lydia’s eyes drifted to the side and the mug of pens on Morrell’s desk slid forward without being touched and, unbidden, toppled over the edge to smash on the floor.

“Oh my!” Morrell stood and moved around the desk to collect the shards of ceramic and Lydia used the distraction to flee from the guidance office. The inside of her head buzzed, as if it was full of blowflies. The scenery was a blur of colours and sounds as she whirled out of the school. She took refuge in her car where she removed a glove to cry. Stop it, she urged herself. Stop being so weak. But oh, she couldn’t. She wasn’t sure how long she sat there—minutes, hours—before she heard the last voice she wanted to hear right now.

“Hey, Lydia? What’s wrong?”

Lydia pointedly refused to look at Stiles Stilinski and began to raise the window of her car.

His voice was muffled now through the glass. “Lydia, come—” He knocked on the glass.

“Just go away!” she cried.

“What’s _wrong?_ ”

“Look, I don’t need anyone seeing me cry!” she yelled.

“Oh come _on_ , Lydia.” Stiles hunkered down a little. “Look, you shouldn’t care if people see you cry, alright? Especially you.”

She turned to Stiles then. “Why?”

Stiles’ voice softened. “Because I think you look really beautiful when you cry.”

(fool desperate idiotic fool)

Lydia stared at the steering wheel, but she rolled down the window again. Stiles braced his elbows on the edge of it. Biting back the fear, Lydia thought back to the night of the winter formal again and she thought of Stiles running toward her. She thought of the way he had tried to support her ever since that night, and the way his expression was so open and receptive to her now. She thought of Peter Hale and smashing her mirror in her sleep, the flickering lights and falling mug.

“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” she said.

“Lydia,” Stiles told her, “if you trust me on anything, you can trust me on this. There is _nothing_ that you can say to me that’ll make you sound crazy _. Literally nothing_.”

Lydia took a few breaths. This was it. Maybe once she hung out the proverbial laundry everything would go back to normal and she could push this all in the past. She wiped her eyes and—

“Can you just give me five minutes?”

Lydia turned to him abruptly.

“I know, I’m sorry. Just… But just stay here! Um… continue crying.”

Lydia’s mouth dropped open with affront.

“Or not-crying! If you want! Or whatever works for you. I’m… But just stay here; I’ll be right back, okay? And then we can talk. About anything, yeah?”

Lydia looked straight ahead, drawing in a breath.

“Okay just five minutes!” Stiles made a frustrated sound and bolted from her car. Lydia’s breath hitched and she settled back in her seat. She glanced at the dashboard clock. Stiles said five minutes, right? Maybe that was a good thing. She could gather her thoughts so that she could present them in a more logical manner. Or maybe… maybe she could convince herself to say nothing at all. Lydia glanced at the clock again; two minutes had gone by. Perhaps she should give Stiles ten. 

 

 

From the journal of Allison Argent:

 

If only we had told her sooner. We should have told her right away after she was attacked…

 

 

Lydia knew, when she heard the final cheer at the end of the lacrosse game, that she had been a fool. Stiles didn’t return, probably never had any intentions of returning. He probably took a shortcut through the school to go back to the lacrosse field. He’d been gone for nearly an hour. Lydia seethed. He was probably making fun of her right now. Poor, stupid Lydia, slowly losing her mind. Weak, _pathetic_ Lydia with the leaking abscess on her leg.

(i’ll show him show them all they will never underestimate me again)

Lydia gripped the steering wheel tightly and spots of red bloomed on her pink glove as the scabs on her knuckles reopened.

(show them all)

There was a loud cracking noise, and then Lydia jumped as she heard the sound of bursting glass. A car alarm sounded, lights flashing and horn honking. She turned to the source, saw that all of the windows and the windshield of the Ford had been smashed. A slow smile curved her lips. _She_ did that. Lydia had felt it, like flexing a muscle but not. She looked at another car, thought of the satisfying feeling as the glass in the Ford exploded. She tensed that intangible muscle in her mind, eyes burning with the intensity of it. The glass blew out of the vehicle like it had been hit by a concussion, and Lydia felt glee as the car alarm wailed. A headache was settling behind her eyes, but Lydia was undeterred. Her rational mind told her that what she was doing was impossible, but at the forefront of her thoughts was the realization that she could use this to protect herself. If she could train herself to use this ability, she could fight back. And if Peter Hale came for her again

(i’ll make him pay)

she would be ready.

Lydia turned her key in the ignition and put the gear in reverse, backing her car out of its parking space. She grinned to herself as she left the school lot, imagining the enraged cries of her classmates as they find their vandalized vehicles. When the dogs came for her, she would give them hell. 


	2. The Wolf, The Witch, And The Wardrobe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, the differences are subtle in comparison to other canon divergence stories, but I promise that big changes are in the future. Every good horror novel has its buildup. Damn though, going back to watch all of Lydia's parts in season 2 to write this made me see how awful her friends are. Christ, it's no wonder the ending I have in store comes to pass.

From _Reexamining Psychokinesis: Comment on B_ _ösch, Steinkamp, and Boller (2006)_ by Dean Radin:

 

Clearly, one's view of what is meant by PK shapes the proper definition of effect size in these studies, and as such, it is important to note that the hypothesis under test is not a proposal about pure physics. Rather, PK proposes an interaction between physics and psychology in which both sides of that relationship are linked in a meaningful way. Thus, Bösch et al.'s major assumption, which may be plausible for an experiment designed to measure the gravitational constant, is inappropriate for a PK experiment.

Indeed, if PK operates without regard to psychological factors and effect size is constant regardless of the number of randomly generated bits, then experiments with high levels of statistical significance can easily be produced by simply increasing the number of bits. But the data clearly show that  _z_  scores do not increase with increasing sample size. On the other hand, if effect sizes are intimately related to the psychological task, then a better measure of effect size might be associated with the statistical outcome of a single session or, alternatively, the overall  _z_  score associated with an entire study…

 

 

“The school called,” Mrs. Martin said at dinner. Lydia busied herself with cutting a bite-sized piece of chicken. “They said that you left your appointment early.” Lydia placed the bite in her mouth and chewed. “We’re worried about you, honey.”

Lydia swallowed the bite and met her mother’s eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Recent evidence suggests not,” said Mr. Martin. “Look, Lydia, you don’t have to prove to us that you’re a strong girl; we _know_ you are. But sometimes even the strong need help.”

Lydia set down her knife and fork. “I don’t need help.” She pushed her chair back and stood up from the table. “Thanks for the meal.”

“Lydia, you barely touched your dinner,” Mrs. Martin protested.

“I’m not hungry.” Lydia turned away from her parents’ concerned eyes and went to the stairs, ascending quickly so that she could shut herself in her room. Her head ached and she closed her eyes in the darkness, leaning against her bedroom door. She extended a tendril of thought, tracing the wall next to her with her visuo-spatial memory for where the light switch was located about a meter away from her right shoulder. She drew her lower lip between her teeth, imagined flipping the light switch, and tried to exert that strange extrasensory force…

There was a soft snapping sound and light burned against her eyelids. Lydia opened them and grinned at her illuminated bedroom. She slipped off her shoes and removed her glove, setting it, along with her purse, on her dresser. Rust coloured patches had bled through the gauze, but it was drying. Lydia retrieved her laptop and slid onto her bed, booting it up. When her personal files finished loading, she opened up a web browser and dug in with clawed hands to scour the internet for any and all reputable information she could find on psychokinesis and telekinesis. The general consensus seemed to state that it was highly unlikely, but there were a few blips on the scientific radar; certainly enough to raise a few eyebrows and inspire further research on the subject.

Lydia looked around her room, fixed her eyes on the hairbrush on her dresser. She licked her lips and took a deep breath as she closed her eyes, visualising the brush floating above the surface. She nudged with her mind, thought, _flex_ , and opened her eyes. The hairbrush hovered only a few inches, but Lydia gasped with delight at the sight of it, sending the brush clattering back to the top of her dresser. But it was still enough. Lydia’s head throbbed, but her heart pounded with excitement. Perhaps she should thank Stiles Stilinski after all.

“Lydia, sweetie?” Mrs. Martin called. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, mother!” said Lydia, and this time it wasn’t a lie. Lydia was better than alright.

 

 

Graffiti on a desk in the English department of Beacon Hills High School:

_And Lydia Martin is the biggest of them all._

 

 

From _Dean Justifies Psychic Research_ , an article in Science News:

 

The work started when an undergraduate, Carol K. Curry, asked Jahn to supervise her independent study in psychic research as a base for building instrumentation and data processing skills. The researchers began with some simple extrasensory perception exercises – "to establish that we were indeed capable of generating effects to study" – then moved on to designing equipment to measure psychokinesis – a  palpable disturbance of a physical system by thought alone.

The psychokinesis experiments illustrate well why such research can be both tantalizing and frustrating. Rather than try to reproduce spectacular, "macroscopic" effects, such as spinning a compass without touching it (which has been reported in poorly documented studies), Jahn and Curry concentrated on easily observed "microscopic" phenomena. In one experiment, a subject was to raise the temperature of a thermistor by a few thousandths of a degree. In another, the goal was to change the separation of two mirrors in a Fabry-Perot interferometer by a hundred-thousandth of a centimeter. The observations were specific and even dramatic. Subjects did, indeed, seem capable at times of raising the thermistor temperature or changing the optical path length of the interferometer at will. But neither experiment was fully "reproducible" in the scientifically accepted sense: The effects varied unpredictably from person to person and from day to day. Because of this unpredictability, Jahn prefers to call the results of work so far "tutorial" rather than technically conclusive. That is, they should be used as models for more extensive research rather than as any sort of "proof" of the validity of psychic phenomena. Nevertheless, analysis of these experiments has offered two important insights that can be further tested in future research.

First, the ability to produce measurable psychic effects appears to be trainable. Neither Jahn nor Curry was aware of any initial psychic ability and both got better as they went along. An important element in such training appears to be feedback that is "visible and attractive," Jahn says.

Second, Jahn speculates that psychic phenomena may have an inherently statistical nature. If so, theories dealing with such phenomena are likely to involve abstruse concepts related to the formalism of quantum mechanics or statistical mechanics, rather than some easily grasped intuitive explanation. In particular, psychokinesis appears to involve a reduction of entropy – a statistical measure of disorder – and the equivalence of physical "information" and energy.

An ad hoc committee of the university has established a charter for Jahn's work on psychic phenomena to proceed and he has brought in developmental psychologist Brenda Dunne to work full time on the program. In an interview Dunne said that a growing number of reputable scientists are becoming active in psychic research, but that "the field as a whole is struggling for recognition as a legitimate science."

 

 

Lydia sat in the back of her economy class, copying the last minute notes and practice questions being scrawled on the board by Bobby Finstock and his other students. Peripherally, she could hear other students whispering to each other. She shut out their voices and focused on copying out equations. There was no way she was going to let

(peter hale)

what happened to her get in the way of her GPA. She looked up as Tyler Moore finished writing and moved out of the way of the board and caught sight of someone else standing at the middle blackboard. The equations were written in a spiral, starting in the centre of the board and expanding out like a great whirlpool. The man was tall, with dark hair and a leather jacket.

(peter hale)

Like Pavlov’s dog, Lydia felt her eyes widen and her breath come faster. Her legs tensed beneath her seat, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Everyone was staring at her, and her eyes darted about her classmates. Why weren’t they doing anything? Why weren’t they concerned about the man trespassing on school grounds? Lydia swallowed hard and as he turned around, her eyes locked on him, unable to tear away because Peter Hale was a predator and not the kind that deputies warned you about when you were a little girl. Peter Hale was the kind of predator they warned you about in fairy tales

(who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?)

and Lydia had the terrible feeling that she was Little Red Riding Hood. When Peter’s eyes met hers, the classroom could have been empty and Lydia wouldn’t have noticed. Nothing existed in the world except for him and her.

Don’t drop your eyes, she told herself. Dropping your eyes is a sign of submission.

Peter threw a desk to the side, sending its legs scraping across the floor, and Lydia cringed, frozen like a deer in the headlights as he advanced on her. Another desk was discarded to the side like much trash, and as Peter began to pick up another, Lydia scrambled from her seat with a cry, pressing her back against the wall. Oh, why had she chosen the back seat? Now she was trapped. Peter knocked one last desk aside and then he was standing in front of her, barely a foot of space between them. Lydia began to hyperventilate. He towered over her like a giant. He drew in close, faces inches apart, and a terrified whimper broke out of Lydia’s throat. Peter raised a hand between them, crushing the piece of chalk in his hand, and he opened it in front of his mouth, blowing the dust in her face. Lydia squeezed her eyes shut out of reflex and distantly, she heard a voice call her name.

Her eyes flashed open

(i won’t be a victim anymore no no no i have power now i will show you i will make you pay)

and she found herself standing at the front of the classroom, tears streaking her face and chalk in her hand. Bobby Finstock came over to her, looking slightly bemused and disturbed. He laughed nervously.

“Okay then. Anybody else want to try answering?” He turned to face the class. “This time in English.”

The class laughed and Lydia caught sight of the boy from the guidance office. In the back right corner of the room, Stiles Stilinski looked concerned. Lydia turned around to see the board. Finstock was incorrect; what Lydia had written was indeed English, but backwards. She had no recollection of writing it, but her heart thudded in her chest as she read the phrase, repeated over and over again across the surface of the blackboard.

_SOMEONE HELP ME_

The classroom door burst open and Lydia dropped the chalk as she ran. She heard the grating sound of metal chair legs scraping on linoleum, Stiles calling her name as he ran after her, and anger settled thick in her gut. The door slammed shut behind Lydia, rattling in its frame from the force of the impact, and she held it closed as she rushed down the hall. Above Lydia’s head, a fluorescent light smashed, and then a second one, and she fought to reign in her errant power. Finally, Lydia shut herself in the girls’ bathroom, clutching the sink as tried to catch her breath and regain control of herself.

Lydia had two choices: she could skip the rest of the day and avoid the stares of her classmates or she could go back to class and face them head on. Neither choice looked very appealing. If she skipped, she would be showing even more weakness. It would be like lying on her back and baring her throat. The dogs would kill her. But going back meant facing their judging eyes, being trailed by accusing whispers. However… at least if she was there, she could defend herself. Lydia took a deep breath and scrubbed at her face. She took a few minutes to gaze at her appearance in the mirror, make sure she looked alright, before she exited the bathroom.

Lydia half-expected to hear Stiles Stilinski calling after her, but it seemed that for once he had taken a hint. She didn’t know why she was strangely disappointed.

The bell rang and Lydia went to her economics class to pick up her books. Finstock gave her an awkward half smile as Lydia walked in to retrieve her things from the back desk. After a short trip to her locker to exchange her books, she went to her chemistry class and sat at a table, opening her notes to the lab sheet to read over the instructions. She hears soft voices say her name in passing, but she ignored them. She would not allow herself to look vulnerable again. Lab stools screeched on either side of her and Lydia looked up with exasperation to see Scott McCall and Stiles Stilinski bracketing her.

“Einstein once said, ‘ _two things are infinite,_ ’” said Adrian Harris as he addressed his class, “’ _the universe and human stupidity; and I’m not sure about the universe._ ’ I, myself, have encountered infinite stupidity.” Lydia smirked as Harris’s hand clapped down on Stiles’ extremely unimpressed shoulder. “So to combat the plague of ignorance in my class, you’re going to combine efforts through a round of group experiments. Let’s see if two heads are indeed better than one. Or in Mr. Stilinski’s case, less than one.”

Stiles’ mouth dropped open with offense and Lydia turned a viciously gleeful smile on him.

Harris raised his gaze to Erica Reyes. “Erica, take the first station. Start with—”

Hands cascaded into the air with eager volunteers. Indeed, Erica Reyes had gained quite a few levels in popularity since her strange turnabout last week. The once awkward, fragile-looking girl now oozed sexual confidence with her black-lined eyes and cherry red lips.

Harris looked about the classroom with irritation. “I didn’t ask for volunteers. Put your hormonal little hands down.” The hands reluctantly lowered to students’ sides. “Start with Mr. McCall. Next two…” And on he went. Lydia was paired with Allison Argent.

As Lydia read the directions, Allison whispered to her, “I heard about what happened last period in economics. Are you alright?”

Lydia beamed at her. “Of course. I was just stressed about the midterm tomorrow.”

Allison chewed her lip and Lydia knew that she didn’t believe her, but she was thankful when Allison didn’t ask again. Lydia measured out a scoop of calcium carbonate and frowned as she looked up to see Erica Reyes squeezing Scott McCall’s thigh under the desk.

“Never?” she said to Allison. “You never get jealous?”

“Why would I?” asked Allison with a small smile.

“Because that _thing_ happening over there—” Lydia pointed at Erica’s hand with the spatula “—that requires some jealousy.”

Allison took a deep breath and Lydia could see her fighting the urge to pull Erica away from her boyfriend by her blonde locks.

Harris ringed the bell on his desk, saying in a bored voice, “Switch,” and Lydia finished pouring the vial of 0.3 molar hydrochloric acid into the beaker of calcium carbonate.

Allison suddenly leaned over to her with urgency and said, “Listen to me, okay? Don’t talk to Erica or Isaac.”

Isaac Lahey? Lydia met Allison’s eyes. “Why?”

“Just don’t.”

Harris leaned over them and said, “Let’s go, girls. Next station.”

Allison sighed and finished gathering her books. “Trust me, alright?” She got up from her stool to go to the next experiment, leaving Lydia in confusion. Scott scrambled onto the stool next to Lydia moments later. At the end of the second experiment, Isaac Lahey slid into the seat next to her as she finished writing her observation notes. Lydia dredged herself up to ignore Isaac, but he didn’t speak to her aside from clarifying instructions as they worked on creating glucose.

When Harris rang the bell for the final time, he said, “Time! If you’ve catalyzed the reaction correctly, you should now be looking at a crystal.” Isaac used the tongs to pick up the clear crystal from their beaker and Lydia eyed it with satisfaction. “Now for the part of that last experiment I’m sure you will all enjoy, you can eat it.”

Isaac extended the block of glucose to Lydia in the tongs and she took it between her fingers, examining it before bringing it to her lips.

Suddenly, Scott leapt up from his seat and cried, “Lydia!”

She startled and turned to him with a frown. Scott was staring at her with pleading eyes. “What?” she said.

Scott looked around awkwardly and mumbled, “Nothing,” as he sat back down on his stool.

Eyebrows raised, Lydia breathed out and turned back to the glucose crystal, taking a bite. It crunched between her teeth, sweetness spreading on her tongue. She wondered what the hell all the fuss was about.

 

 

From _That Which Burns: A Meditation on Fire, an Allegory and Competitive Telekinesis_ by Ted Hiebert:

 

At a time determined in advance by the referees, in an agreed upon location, a candle is lit on a competition game board. This signals the beginning of the game, which lasts for one hour or until the candle wax spills onto the game board, whichever comes second. There are four quadrants on the game board – two brown and two blue – aligned according to cardinal points so that teams know how to orient their psychic efforts. A colour is randomly assigned to each team in advance of the competition. The object of the game is to make the wax from the candle drip onto the opponent's side of the board, the winning team being that which has best realized the objective. This objective is to be accomplished by remote mental influence; in whatever way teams determine this guideline for themselves.

In some ways, the game of telekinesis is a meditation on fire – a meditation that takes as its object the idea of influencing the flame it observes. In other ways this meditation is also itself on fire, illuminated as only a meditation can be. It is an attempt to illuminate the brain, to activate and fire-up – to expand the inner workings of a normative or functional mind. A game of telekinesis is also an opportunity to reinvent oneself – an identity redesign designed to render plausible what seems otherwise unapproachable. It is an opportunity to literally play with fire while also using fire as an opportunity to focus and challenge the mind...

 

 

As Marin Morrell held up another inkblot picture, Lydia couldn’t help but wonder where a guidance counselor found herself a Rorschach test. It seemed like more of the kind of thing a psychiatrist would have. Anyway, she was positive that Ms. Morrell was not qualified to give her a formal diagnosis.

“Butterfly,” Lydia said boredly.

Morrell held up another picture.

“Butterfly.” And to the next picture she said, “Butterfly.” She repeated the mantra pre-emptively with a roll of her eyes as Morrell raised another picture before Lydia’s eyes fell to the pattern and she raised her eyebrows with a flippant, “Butterfly.”

Morrell looked unamused as she lowered the photograph and held up another. Lydia froze as she stared at the pattern. It looked more like a corpse than a man. His eyes were drawn shut and his mouth hung open in agony. Black ink shaded in the burnt tissue of his flesh. Lydia’s breath came faster and Morrell had to call her name.

She met Morrell’s stare and said, “ _Danaus plexippus_.”

Morrell gave her a sardonic smile. “Which is the scientific name for…?”

Lydia grinned. “Butterfly.”

Morrell closed her eyes and set the picture down, folding her hands and shaking her head. “Lydia, what’s it going to take to get you to open up?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lydia said firmly.

(show no weakness show them nothing i’m stronger than all of them)

“I am as honest and open as a person can be.”

Morrell clearly didn’t believe her. She picked up the previous picture and looked at it, saying, “Huh. I would have said ‘ _wolf_ ’.”

 

 

Graffiti on a desk in the economics classroom of Beacon Hills High School:

_Lydia Martin has finally cracked. It’s about damn time._

 

 

Lydia jerked her arm from Stiles Stilinski’s grip as he led her into the hall with Allison Argent and Jackson Whittemore.

“If we’re doing a study group, why don’t we just stay in the library?” she asked with annoyance. She didn’t really want to be around Stiles or Jackson right now.

“Because we’re meeting up with somebody else,” said Stiles, patting her arm.

“Hm,” Lydia said thoughtfully. “Well why don’t _they_ just meet us in the library?”

“Oh, that would have been a great idea!” Stiles exclaimed too-loudly. “Too late!”

A thought tickled at the corner of her mind and she frowned. “Okay, hold on—”

“Lydia.” Jackson crowded up against her, looping an arm through hers. “Shut up and walk.” Lydia stumbled as she was forced to pick up the pace and she fought the urge to yank away from him. If she really wanted to, she could shove Jackson into the lockers without even lifting a finger, show _him_ how it feels to be pushed around. The thought made her feel marginally better.

They piled into Stiles’ Jeep and she looked out the window as they drove away from the school, pointedly ignoring her companions. Stiles parked in front of the McCall house and Lydia said, “If we’re studying at Scott’s house, then where’s Scott?”

“Meeting us here,” said Stiles. “I think… I hope.” Once they were inside, Stiles turned all of the locks and set the bolt and chain in the door. Lydia raised her eyebrows at him after he peeked through the curtains. Stiles looked around awkwardly. “Uh… There’s been a few break-ins around the neighbourhood.” He nodded like he thought that was an acceptable excuse. Lydia rolled her eyes and Stiles suddenly seized the wooden chair from the entryway, tilting it on its back legs and lodging the backing beneath the doorknob. “And a murder!” Allison looked away with embarrassment and Jackson gave a frustrated sigh. “Yeah, it was bad.”

“Lydia, follow me,” said Jackson. “I need to talk to you for a minute.”

Lydia gave him a skeptical look and sighed. “Seriously? What is going on with everyone?” But she marched after him down the hall. Jackson led her to Scott’s bedroom and gestured for her to enter before he closed the door behind them. He brought a hand to his forehead and groaned in pain. “You okay?” Lydia asked.

Jackson turned toward her, eyes clenched shut, and grunted as he nodded.

Lydia took two steps toward him. “So…?”

Jackson opened his eyes and scowled at her. “So you never gave me back my key.”

Lydia stared at him. “What? It… Y-your _key?_ That’s what you wanted to talk about?”

“Why didn’t you give it back?”

“Are you kidding?” Lydia narrowed her eyes. “I’m attacked by some lunatic who _bites me_ —a lunatic who, by the way, _still hasn’t been caught!_ I spent _two days_ freaked out of my mind, walking around the woods naked. All of my friends are acting like total nutcases, and you expect me to be worried about some stupid key?”

“So do you have the key or not?” he asked.

Lydia gaped at him.

(i could smash the window and stab you with the glass over and over you bastard you fucking bastard)

“Not,” she said resolutely.

Jackson stared at her for a moment. “You just lied to me.”

Lydia’s eyes fell from his and she restrained the urge to run her fingers along the chain that dangled from her neck. She could feel the warmed metal of the key where it lay between her breasts. She stood by the window and Jackson took a step toward her.

“Where’s my key, Lydia?” he demanded. Tears trailed from her eyes and she looked down. “It was you, wasn’t it?” he accused. “You edited the tape.”

“What tape?” Lydia asked with confusion.

“The night of the full moon. The recording? You came into my house, into my room, and you saw what was happening to me. So you took the tape from the camera and you edited out the most important part!” He was mad. It wasn’t just Lydia; _everyone_ was going mad. “I don’t know why,” he said, “maybe because you wanted to take that from me— _my_ moment—like you take everything.”

Lydia squeezed her eyes shut. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t the Jackson she knew.

His voice softened a little. “Or maybe you just thought you were protecting me. But it _was_ you, wasn’t it?”

Lydia finally turned to him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But if you need it _so badly_ … fine.” And now she gave into the urge, fingertips touching the chain, and she lifted it over her head. She held Jackson’s hand out in a cup and let the key fall into it before slapping down the end of the chain decisively. Jackson fiddled with the key and chain in his hands, unable to meet Lydia’s eyes. “I _hate_ you,” she said. “I hate you so much.”

“No,” Jackson said, and he met her eyes. “No you don’t.”

She drew in a sharp, hitching breath. “I should! I should hate you!”

The last of the hardness left Jackson’s eyes and he raised a hand to wipe a tear from her cheek.

She cringed, looking away from him, and her chest tightened with pain. “Don’t!”

“Lydia,” he murmured, turning her face toward his, and he drew in close until their foreheads touched. And then he closed the distance so that their lips brushed in a gentle kiss. Something inside of Lydia cracked then, and she lifted her hands to his neck as she kissed him back fervently. God help her, she still wanted him, and she hated herself a little for it. There was far too much history between them. They clung together like barnacles to a shipwreck, and there was the sound of shattering glass coming from down the hall.

Lydia pulled back. “What was that?” Jackson looked toward the door and Lydia extricated herself from his arms, going to investigate. She crept down the hall, heard snarling

(the dogs are here they’ve finally come for me)

and she wondered aloud, “ _What’s happening?_ ”

Allison suddenly rounded the corner and raised her hands, hissing, “Get back! Someone’s trying to break in! Okay? Go!” Lydia stumbled back one step. “Lydia, _go!_ ” Allison cried.

Fear rose sharp and bitter in Lydia’s mouth

(oh god it’s him it’s peter it’s him)

and she ran back to Scott’s room, shutting the door behind her. She pressed her back against the wood and tried to catch her breath, looking around frantically. “Jackson?” she called, but the room was empty of life. A cold breeze blew in through the open window. She bolted for the closet, locking it behind her, and she yelped as she heard crashing wood, pressing her ear against the door. She tried to remind herself that she was strong now. She could hold the door closed with her mind if she needed to. God, she hoped she wouldn’t need to. She dug her cellphone out of the pocket of her jacket, dialing 911 frantically. She held the phone to her ear and covered the other one with her hand to block out the noise.

“911, Operator speaking. What’s your emergency?” came the tinny voice over the line.

“Hi! Hi, I need the police,” Lydia said. “Yes… I—” The lights flickered and went dark, and Lydia knew that it wasn’t her this time. She made a distressed noise in her throat. Her phone went dead. She bit her lip and crouched down on the closet floor. She heard Scott’s bedroom door open and then there was the sound of metal rattling as the lock slid into place.

“Stiles!” Lydia heard Allison yell through the door. “It’s here!”

What was here? Lydia felt like she was standing on a precipice. On one side lay all of her worldly beliefs and on the other was a truth she couldn’t fathom. Her world view had already changed once with the realization of her abilities. What else was there to learn?

Lydia heard something slam into Scott’s bedroom door once, twice, three times before it broke open. A pause before there was a soft laugh and a feminine voice said, “This might make me sound like kind of a bitch, but I’ve always wondered what it feels like to steal someone’s boyfriend.” _Erica Reyes?_ “I bet it’s a pretty sick rush of power. I think I might try it with Scott.” The girl laughed. “You know what? I don’t think it’s going to be that hard. Because why would he be waiting around to steal ten minutes with you when he can have me anytime he wants?” There was a pause in the monologue as something clicked and Erica laughed. “You didn’t really think that would work, did you?”

“Actually, I did,” Allison said softly.

After a moment’s silence, Erica suddenly cried out and there was the thud of a body hitting the floor. Lydia clamped her hand over her mouth to hold back a gasp. She heard Allison whisper something and then footsteps trailed away from Scott’s room. Lydia pressed herself into the corner of the closet. What was Allison doing? Why was Erica breaking into Scott’s house and why was Allison leaving her with Lydia in the closet just a door away?

(you can take her)

But then someone else entered the bedroom and shortly after, Lydia heard them thump away back down the hall. There were a few more crashes, then silence. In the distance, Lydia could hear sirens. She let out a sigh of relief and scrambled to her feet, unlocking the closet door. Suddenly, Lydia was furious. She strode purposefully down the hall and out the front door, hanging ajar. Scott, Allison, and Stiles were standing on the walkway and out on the street stood a dark-skinned student she recognized from school—she thought his name might have been Boyd—and _Derek Hale_ of all people. The last Lydia had heard of Derek Hale, he was being accused of the murders Allison’s aunt committed.

(and he’s the nephew of peter hale)

 The prone bodies of Erica and Isaac lay sprawled on the grass in front of them.

“Would someone please tell me what the _hell_ is going on?” she demanded. Her friends gaped at her and in the corner of her vision, Lydia saw Boyd and Derek grab Isaac and Erica and bolt for the woods.

Allison chewed her lip and came up the stairs to her. “Lydia? I’m really sorry. I know you’re freaked out; let me drive you home.”

Lydia narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger at Allison’s chest. “You owe me an explanation.”

“I know,” Allison said. “Just not right now. Please let me take you home.”

“Hm.” Lydia cocked her head, giving Allison a scathing, tight-lipped smile. “Fine.” She brushed past Scott and Stiles without a word and got into the passenger seat of Allison’s car as she unlocked the door. The ride home was deadly silent.

When they pulled in the driveway, Allison sighed and covered her face with one hand. She took a deep breath as she turned to Lydia. “I need you to promise that you won’t say anything about what just happened”

“I’ll promise not to say anything about what just happened,” said Lydia, “if you can tell me _what the hell just happened?_ ”

“It’s—It’s kind of complicated.”

Lydia made a noise of disgust. “Well how about you start with _why was Derek there?_ Or where Jackson—or what is _wrong_ with Erica?”

Allison opened her mouth and closed it again, looking away.

“Oh, do you need a minute to come up with a plausible lie?” Lydia strongly considered breaking the windows of Allison’s car.

“Part of the reason why I’m asking is because Scott and I aren’t supposed to be seeing each other, okay?” Allison said. “So it’s better if you just keep what you know to yourself.”

“Fine,” she breathed,

(fuck you you selfish fucking bitch i don’t trust you i don’t trust you)

giving Allison a cold glare, “I’ll keep what I know about you and your boyfriend—which is nothing—to myself.” She opened the car door and turned away, rushing to get her limbs out the door, when Allison’s hand landed on her shoulder.

“Hey,” she said. “He’s not just my boyfriend. You get that, right?”

There was a tremor in the window in the backseat. “Let me go.”

“Just for one second. Please, try and remember—”

Lydia tossed her head back with exasperation. “Remember what?!”

“Remember what it feels like!” Allison said. “All of those times in school when you see him standing down the hall and you cannot _breathe_ until you’re with him. Or those times in class when you—you can’t stop looking at the clock because you know that he’s standing right out there, waiting for you… Don’t you remember what that’s like?”

In that moment, Lydia truly hated Allison. She hated her for bringing up memories that right now, only brought her pain, and she was using that to manipulate Lydia into dropping her questions when not knowing could have gotten her hurt tonight. Or worse. And now Allison was asking her to keep quiet about it _to hide her relationship with Scott_. “No,” said Lydia.

“What do you mean, ‘no’? You’ve _had_ boyfriends,” said Allison.

“Not like that.” Lydia opened the door again and got out of the vehicle before she could lose control. Her head ached with the strain of holding everything in. She couldn’t stand to be around Allison right now. Or anybody. She would explode. Lydia brushed past her parents as she entered her house and she heard her mother call her name as she ran up the stairs.

“I’m fine!” she shouted. She shut and locked the door behind her as she entered her bedroom and threw herself onto the floor, hands clenching into fists. She shut her eyes tightly and bit her lip. There were hands on the inside of her head pressing against her skull. Lydia focused on her bed, imagined lifting it up, and _flexed_ some of that energy. A little of the pressure trickled free, like a pinhole in a balloon. She allowed her thoughts to encompass her dresser as well, and she heard necklaces jangling as it stirred. Next she thought of her nightstand. When Lydia opened her eyes again, they were all floating a few feet above the floor. She let out a slow breath and lowered them to the floor gently before she lifted them again, like a bench press. Gradually, the pressure dissipated until Lydia was just sitting on the floor, breathing slow and deep as her heart raced with the mental exertion. She let her bedroom furniture touch the floor one last time before releasing her hold. She removed her shoes and lay back on the floor, uncaring, and stared at the ceiling as her heart rate slowly normalized.

She felt so alone.

 

 

From _Paraphysics: Odds for Psychokinesis_ , an article in Science News:

 

In 1943 the pioneer systematic investigator of parapsychological phenomena, J. B. Rhine, reported that some people seemed able to affect the fall of dice by mental effort. Rhine's work has been brought into serious question in recent years, but now comes Helmut Schmidt of the Mind Science Foundation in San Antonio to say that his own work with random number generators of his own devising leads him to the qualified and somewhat troubled conclusion that there is statistical evidence in favor of psychokinesis.

He said this last week to the mixed consternation and fascination of a standing room only crowd composed mostly of physicists, and where he said it is important too. He had been invited to talk on his work at a meeting of the American Physical Society by a section of the society, the Forum on Physics and Society. Although in another invited talk Ray Hyman of the University of Oregon issued a strong warning against overenthusiasm about parapsychology, the spirit of the session was not an attempt to lay a troublesome ghost (as the American Association for the Advancement of Science tried to do with Imannuel Velikovsky), but to raise a question whether there is something here for physicists to look at. As Paul Horwitz of the AVCO-Everett Corp., who chaired the session, put it, "it is a question whether we do not completely understand ordinary physical phenomena."

Schmidt is a physicist; he uses what physicists consider quite ordinary physical phenomena, and a statement he made at the outset started physicists' imaginations going. It seems that psychokinesis works only on random, acausal processes, not on strictly determined ones. It will work with something quantum mechanical, like the decay of a bunch of radioactive atoms, but not with something classical like the swing of a pendulum. Physicists have frequently to decide why a certain thing goes by quantum mechanics and another by classical physics, and even one who will have no truck with psychokinesis might have believed in telepathy to feel the vibes going around the room. Two or three gave voice to the result as they sought mechanisms by which the mind could affect quantum mechanics. One supposed it might be through the "hidden variables," the deterministic causes that are supposed to underlie the statistical uncertainties of quantum mechanics (according to a theory that developed after a suggestion of Einstein) and actually specify them in an unobserved way. Schmidt refused to make any theoretical speculations about mechanism (although he would later make a breathtaking one about means and ends)…

 

 

An undeterminable amount of time went by as Lydia lay on her floor before she heard her mother calling her down to dinner. She sighed as she stood up, stretched, and exited her bedroom.

“Are you alright?” Mrs. Martin asked as Lydia entered the dining room and took a seat at the table.

“You know, I’m getting really tired of people asking me that,” said Lydia.

Her mother grimaced. “Sorry.”

“We’re just worried about you, honey,” said her father.

Lydia gave him a weak smile in return. “I know.”

When they finished eating, Lydia went to the living room and called over her dog, Prada. She smiled as the papillon trotted over and Lydia scooped him up in her arms, carrying him outside. The dog wagged his tail as Lydia opened the door, and Lydia whispered to herself, “Okay!” She nuzzled the sweet smelling fur and said, “I love you!” kissing the side of Prada’s head before she set the dog down on the porch with a, “Go! Go on!” She watched Prada run down the steps, around the side of the pool, and out the gate. She waited a few minutes and, growing nervous, said, “Let’s go, Prada! You’re all of six pounds, there can’t be that much to come out of you.” When the dog failed to reappear, she called, “Prada, let’s go!” She frowned, arching to try to see around the gate from where she stood. “Prada?”

Lydia stepped down from the porch and walked over the cement path, overgrown on the edges with grass, approaching the gate. “Prada!” Her voice was almost a whimper as she stopped before the iron gate. “Prada?” A shadow appeared in the light of distant streetlamps and grew, prompting Lydia to step back as her breath came faster. The boy from outside the guidance office appeared, carrying Prada in his arms.

“You lose something?” he asked.

Lydia narrowed her eyes and took Prada from his arms, carrying her dog to the door and letting him inside. Behind her, Lydia heard the boy walking over. Lydia went to him, stepping down from the porch.

“So,” she said, leaning back against the ivy-covered arch, “should I call the police or is there a non-rapist explanation for being in my yard in the middle of the night?”

“I heard him barking,” said the boy. “And I live in the house back there.” Lydia turned toward the gate thoughtfully. “Is that okay or should I start running?”

Lydia looked at the boy again with a tight smile. “Well, thanks for bringing him back.”

She started to step back up the porch when the boy asked, “Everything okay?”

Lydia raised an eyebrow at him, swayed a little, and leaned against the arch again. “’Okay’ meaning what?”

“Meaning, are you alright?” He met Lydia’s eyes with concern.

Irritation seeped in. “Meaning, the other day in class?”

The boy shrugged.

“I’m not crazy,” Lydia said. “I may be the girl who sleepwalks naked and writes backwards on the chalkboard, but at least I’m not one of those _desperate_ , Vicodin-popping, wrist-cutters at school.”

The boy looked amused. “Oh, is _that_ what the other girls are like?” He stepped closer and Lydia pressed herself back against the arch, frowning. The boy looked confused. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?” Lydia asked.

“You… you stepped back.”

“ _You_ stepped forward.”

“Maybe I wanted to kiss you.”

Lydia held her head high and raised her eyebrows. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

The boy had a sly look. “Does that mean… maybe I could?”

“If you want me to punch you in the throat.” She smiled sweetly.

He huffed, grinning, and looked down. “Could I… hold your hand?” He reached over and Lydia barked a laugh, rolling her eyes.

“What am I, nine years old?” she said. Lydia turned away from him and he reached past her shoulder to the arch before presenting a small, violet flower to her.

“Could I give you a flower?”

Lydia couldn’t help but grin and she reached for it, but the boy drew back is hand.

“Promise to keep it?” he said. “If I ask you tomorrow if you have it and you say no, I’m going to be really hurt.”

“Well if I don’t—” Lydia plucked the flower from his fingertips and twirled the stem for a moment before poking his nose with the bloom “—I’ll lie.” She whirled away from the boy and went back inside her house.

 

 

From the journal of Allison Argent:

 

Lydia and I are still best friends, but I think I damaged something that night, when Derek’s pack attacked us at Scott’s house because they thought she was the kanima. She had this look in her eyes, in my car out front of her house, like she was nearing her breaking point. Not telling her about werewolves then… that was a mistake. Nearly all of her friends were involved and looking back, it seems so stupid that I thought I could continue to keep it from her. I just wanted to protect her, but I was too late. I would have done her a greater service by telling her the truth. Maybe she would have talked to me about what was happening to her then. Instead I just generated all of this mistrust. And talking to her about Scott… I think that just made it worse…

 

 

Lydia spent the next day avoiding Allison and Scott. Stiles, Jackson, and Danny Mahealani were absent, making it considerably difficult, but she couldn’t stand to talk to them after last night. Not right now.

Which was why when she opened the door to her house after school to see Stiles Stilinski, she took one look at him and said, “No,” shutting the door.

Stiles stumbled forward and pressed his hands against the wood and slipping a foot between the door and the frame to stop it. “Lydia, please! Can you just listen to me?”

Lydia thought satisfyingly of using her mind to crush his foot. “Oh! You mean like you listened to me the other night?”

Stiles winced, shutting his eyes. “Look, I’m really sorry about that. That’s actually what I came here to apologize for.”

“And what about last night?” said Lydia. “I haven’t received any explanations for that either.”

“ _Lydia_.”

“Don’t ‘ _Lydia_ ’ me!” she shouted. “Don’t I have enough problems to deal with?”

“Lydia, that’s the entire reason we’re trying to keep you out of it,” said Stiles. His eyes were pleading. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Lydia stared at him for a long moment, thinking about the wild dog with the abscessing leg, and said, “Well you’re a little late for that. Now take your foot out of my door before I sever it.”

“Lydia, I—”

“ _Go!_ ” Without using her hands, Lydia _pushed_ and Stiles stumbled back with a startled expression. Lydia slammed the door shut and panted as her heart raced. God, that felt good.

But a small part of her felt guilty. Stiles deserved that, for sure, but his offer… maybe Lydia should take someone up on that. And so, fifteen minutes later, she found herself driving over to Allison Argent’s house. Allison wasn’t home, but her father, Chris, let Lydia in and she traced the familiar path up to Allison’s room. She sat on the bed and flicked the light on and off as she waited. After a long while, when she heard footsteps outside the room, she let the light remain off as Allison entered and put her keys on the desk. Allison turned the lamp on, laptop still in her other hand, and she gasped with shock as she saw Lydia sitting on her bed through the reflection in her mirror.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Allison said as she turned to her.

“I’ve been sitting here for an hour, waiting for you,” said Lydia.

“I can’t hang out right now, Lydia,” said Allison, setting her laptop down.

“I don’t need anyone to _hang out_ with.” Lydia paused, dredging up the words. “I need someone to talk to.”

“Lydia, I—I understand that it’s important—” Allison turned toward her with a grimace “—but if it can just wait…”

Lydia stood up, her body a line of frustration. “Why is _everyone_ always telling me to wait? Why can’t anyone have _right now_ available?” She crossed her arms.

“You can’t have everything right now,” Allison said. She unwound her scarf from her neck. “You know what _I_ need? I need someone to translate five pages of archaic Latin! Obviously that’s not going to happen anytime soon.”

“I know archaic Latin,” said Lydia, frowning.

Allison gave her a skeptical look. “You know archaic Latin?”

“I got bored with classical Latin.”

Allison blinked with astonishment. “Just how smart are you?”

Lydia smiled sardonically, holding out a hand. “Just show me the pages.”

Allison booted up her laptop and brought up a PDF file, standing aside to let Lydia sit in the chair at her desk to read over the indicated pages. Lydia read the passage aloud as she translated until Allison stopped her.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “Ms. Morrell said that word means ‘ _friend_ ’. ‘ _The kanima seeks a friend._ ’”

Lydia shook her head. “She was wrong. It means ‘ _master_ ’.”

“’ _The kanima seeks a master._ ’”

“Why?” Lydia’s voice hardened. “Is that important?” She stood up from the desk and brushed past Allison to sit on the bed, picking up her bag.

Allison sat in the chair, saying, “Yeah. Someone’s not protecting him… someone’s controlling him.”

Lydia didn’t bother asking what it was about. Clearly, Allison’s Latin translation was more important than whatever problems she was dealing with.   

 

 

Graffiti on the back of a chair of Beacon Hills High School:

_Lydia Martin is living proof that gingers have no souls._

 

 

“I’m not supposed to tell anyone,” Lydia said flippantly as Stiles tailed her down the hall. He had been asking her about Jackson Whittemore’s birth parents.

“Oh come on!” he protested. “Anyone who ever says, ‘ _I’m not supposed to tell anyone_ ,’ is always dying to tell someone, so tell me!”

Lydia cocked her head without slowing down. “Why do you want to know?”

“I can’t tell you that!”

Lydia stopped momentarily. “Then I’m not telling _you_.” She rolled her eyes as she kept walking.

“But you _are_ telling me that you could tell me something if you wanted to tell me?”

Lydia frowned. “Was that a question?”

“It felt like a question,” said Stiles, “I think.”

Lydia grinned. “Well tell me if this feels like an answer… No.” She beamed as she turned a corner down the hall and Stiles made a noise of frustration after her. He called after her a few times, but Lydia kept walking. It was funny how people only ever wanted to listen to her when it suited their purposes. When she got to her locker, the black-haired boy was waiting for her.

He watched her for a few minutes as she put away her books and collected those she needed for homework, and as she closed the locker door afterward, he asked, “Busy after school?”

“Always,” she replied, turning to him.

“Well,” he said, “Unbusy yourself. I want to talk to you. Actually, I want to show you something.”

Lydia smiled with bemusement. “I thought we’d gotten past the slightly rapey language.”

The boy grinned. “And… bring your flower.” Lydia watched as he walked away and she found herself wondering what his name was. She wasn’t afraid of him. If she could push Stiles away from her door so easily, defending herself from him would be no problem.

She dug through her purse when she got home, then her desk drawer in search of the flower. If someone asked her why she wanted to do as the boy requested, she couldn’t tell them. Perhaps it was because he was a distraction. She wondered what he would think if she showed him that she could lift all of the furniture in her room at once with her mind. She cursed as she failed to find the flower and went down to the porch, searching the ivy that climbed the archway for another flower to replace the one he’d given her, but none of them were the same.

“Perfect,” she mumbled to herself, and she walked over to the gate, peering at the woods beyond. With little regard for her bare feet, she began to wander into the trees. The boy said he lived back here, right? She was beginning to have her doubts when she finally came upon a grand house—or a better word might have been _manor_. There were no cars in the driveway, so she approached and knocked on the door briefly before opening it. “Hello?” Her voice echoed. The walls were painted pristine white, but it was empty of furniture and the white linoleum floor was scattered with dead leaves. She wandered farther into the house, stepping down into what was probably once a sitting room. The floors were hardwood and there was a barren hearth set into the wall and a wardrobe stood by the opposite one, reminding Lydia vaguely of the novel  by CS Lewis. “ _Hello?_ ” She looked around with a frown, heard footsteps behind her.

“Over here.”

Lydia turned to see the boy from school. “Is this your house?”

He looked about. “It _was_. I’ll tell you all about it.” He walked over to her. “But first, did you bring the flower?”

“I couldn’t find it,” she admitted.

The boy walked around her in a circle until he stood behind her. “It’s okay.” Lydia turned to him. “But since you don’t have it, I’m going to need that kiss.”

Lydia frowned at first as he leaned in, but with some hesitation, she tilted her head into the kiss and let her hands rest on his sides as his own came around to hold her upper arms. He wasn’t a bad kisser, she thought as she leaned in for a second one, reaching up to cup the back of his neck. His arms slid around her waist and she raised her other hand to his shoulder, leaning into his body as their mouths slid together firmly. When they finally parted, she looked over his shoulder at the mirror set into the door of the wardrobe.

Something wasn’t right.

She blinked and the white walls fell away to reveal a dilapidated, crumbling structure with charred wood. She looked at the boy, but it wasn’t him. The soft t-shirt that had been under her hand was replaced with a leather jacket and the face that had once been young and beautiful was now covered in blood, dirt, and burns, but even still it was recognizable.

(PETER HALE PETER HALE PETER HALE)

Lydia’s heart stuttered and she stumbled back from him with horror. Peter walked toward her, looking nonchalant. When he stopped, mere feet away, he asked, “Is something wrong?”

Lydia backed up further until she was against the wall and screamed. The wardrobe toppled over and the furniture that now filled the room was thrown back as if by a concussive force. Bits of charcoal rained from the ruined ceiling.

Peter gave her an unimpressed look. “ _Really?_ ”

Lydia’s feet slid down the wall until she was sitting, eyes wide as she tried to catch her breath. Peter sighed and sat next to her, crossing his legs.

“I’m so sorry, Lydia,” he said. “All of this must be… _terribly_ confusing. But at least you know that you’re not actually crazy. Well, not completely. There’s bound to be some… residual effects, but you’re a strong girl. Personally, I think that you’re going to pull through with a minimal amount of posttraumatic stress. And maybe… a few years of profoundly disturbing nightmares. I had a plan, you know.” He turned toward Lydia, speaking almost directly into her ear. She couldn’t even move as his knees knocked against her legs. She flinched as he brought a hand up to stroke her hair. “Mm, it was a good plan.” Lydia’s eyes fell to the fingertips that played with the ends of her locks. “If there’s one thing that I’ve learned in life, it’s to always have a backup.” He pressed closer and whispered, “That would be you.” Her eyes fell closed until his face drifted away again. “Your immunity makes you the perfect plan B. You wouldn’t turn from the bite, you wouldn’t die, but you would be able to do… one. Very. Important thing.” Tears began to run down Lydia’s cheeks. He brought his fingers up to touch her chin, turn her face toward his. “Do you know what that is, Lydia?”

She suddenly had flashes of memories: all of the times she had seen the black-haired boy. But then… the black-haired boy never existed. She had been alone all along. Slowly, Lydia turned to look at Peter, found him gone. She looked down at her hands in confusion and opened them to reveal the violet flower. She picked it up by its dainty stem and swallowed hard. How could she protect herself from a man who was an illusion?

 

 

From _Paraphysics: Odds for Psychokinesis_ , an article in Science News:

 

The equipment starts with an unimpeachable quantum mechanical process, the decay of radioactive atoms. The times at which individual decays come are entirely random. No power on earth now known to physicists can determine them. The product of the decays is registered by a Geiger counter. The Geiger counter is interfaced with a fast oscillating switch so that occasionally the switch is stopped in the up or down position by a signal from the Geiger counter. This is what Schmidt calls "an electronic coin flipper."

The switch signals are read out by lights. In one version there are eight lights around a circle. They flash clockwise if the switch stops successively in the up position, counterclockwise if the switch stops in the down position and back and forth for alternations. The subject holds the readout device and concentrates on making the lights run in one direction. Another version uses red and green lights, and the subject sits and meditates on red or green, hoping to influence the action.

For either configuration chance would give a 50-50 break. Schmidt reports a long-term over-all result of 49.1 percent on one side, indicating that the subjects' wills have a real, but small effect. (The best individual did 52 percent.) The work is done both with the subjects psyched up to believe they can do it and psyched down to believe they can't (hence the figure coming out below 50 percent). The deviation from 50-50 may not seem great, but Schmidt says the number of trials that went into the 49.1 percent leads to a statistical determination that there is only a 1,000 to one chance that this happened by accident.

 

 

The hot water was soothing as it cascaded down Lydia’s body. Every day after school, she had taken to a rigorous training schedule, perfecting her control of her mind. It was worrisome, how fast her heart would pound as she used her power, but she felt that now she understood Jackson’s obsession with working out. Nevertheless, it always left her head aching afterward, and now the shower was a welcomed respite.

Or it was until she heard a distant roaring sound coming from the other side of the curtain. Frowning, Lydia turned off the water and pulled back the curtain. On the other side was the lacrosse field, all lit up for a game, and she saw parents and students from Beacon Hills High School cheering from the bleachers. Lydia stood in the middle of the field, and suddenly she realized that she was wearing her dress from the winter formal. Members of the lacrosse team sat on the benches and adoring fans held up signs proclaiming their love for Lydia. A girl suddenly began to panic, her face drawn up with terror. Lydia turned around, following the girl’s line of sight to see

(PETER HALE PETER HALE PETER HALE)

Peter walking toward her, whole again.

(no no no no no)

She started to run and he grabbed her shoulders, tackling her to the ground. Her fingers clawed at the grass for purchase and she felt Peter press in close, mouth yawning and breath hot against the side of her throat.

Lydia clenched her eyes shut and yelled, “ _Get away from me!_ ” and the weight was suddenly lifted from her as Peter was thrown back.

Lydia jolted awake with a cry, frightened tears streaking her face. Her bed was full of dirt. She swiped at it with her hands, but it only served to spread the mess. She took a deep breath and said, “Leave me alone.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t,” said Peter from where he was reclined next to her. “At least, not yet.”

“Are you real?” she asked.

Peter sat up and leaned toward her. “Interestingly, that question can also be answered, ‘ _not yet._ ’ I promise everything’s going to get back to normal, Lydia. All that you have to do—” he cupped her cheek with a clawed hand “—is every single thing that I ask.”

Frightened tears coursed down Lydia’s cheeks and his nails suddenly dug in, prompting a startled cry of pain.

“Timing is key here, Lydia,” Peter said, leading her from her bedroom and down the stairs. He held her hand in both of hers. “It all needs to happen on the next full moon. Do you know what they call the full moon in March? It’s called the Worm Moon.”

Lydia’s breaths game in gasps as she looked down to see her feet covered in dirt and slimy earthworms.

“They call it that,” Peter continued, “because it’s the last full moon of the winter and the worms will literally crawl out of the earth as it thaws.” He turned to Lydia then, now covered in dirt and the same worms that wet Lydia’s feet. “Kind of has the feel of a rebirth, doesn’t it?” The worms and dirt disappeared and Peter led her to the living room with her hand looped around the inside of his elbow.

“But the full moon’s on Wednesday,” said Lydia. “That’s my birthday.”

“Exactly. And Lydia’s birthday is always the party of the year, isn’t it?” Through the French doors, Lydia saw an image of her classmates out on the porch and in her yard. “Everyone wants to go to Lydia’s party, so we’re going to make it a very special party.”

“And what if I don’t?” she whispered, and suddenly, blood streaked the glass of the doors and her yard was full of bodies. Lydia gasped for breath.

“I think it’s best if we just make a plan and stick to it,” Peter said cordially. “That way, no one gets hurt.”

“Why me?”

“Because Lydia Martin is not only beautiful, not only incredibly intelligent…” Peter smiled brilliantly. “She’s immune.”

Lydia shook her head. “Immune to what?”

“Oh, that’s right. They haven’t told you, have they? I bet you felt like the last to know for a long time. Doesn’t feel good, does it? You deserve to know everything. It’s probably best if I just show you.”

Peter disappeared from Lydia’s side and she slowly turned toward the kitchen window. Outside stood an anthropomorphic, lupine beast with glowing red eyes. It clutched the window, breath fogging the glass, and Lydia screamed as it smashed through, jaws gaping. It landed on the kitchen counter, muscles bunching in its legs, and it lunged forward, claws outstretched for Lydia. She fought the urge to run, and when it was nearly upon her, Lydia cried, “ _STOP!_ ”

With her mind, Lydia batted the beast from the air

(home run)

and it crashed to the floor behind the couch in a heap. Buzzing with exhilaration, Lydia went to the kitchen, picked up a shard of glass, and ran to it, finding Peter Hale in its place.

Peter coughed and looked up at her with an astonished smile. “My, my… well aren’t we full of surprises?”

Lydia steeled herself and knelt next to him, pressing the sharp edge of the glass to his throat. He grinned with amusement, but Lydia didn’t cower away. Not this time.

(no more playing the victim no more wounded leg no more dogs)

“What makes you think, supposing that you’re not bluffing, that I would let you kill them?” she asked. “I’m powerful now. I can do things that you probably couldn’t even imagine.”

Peter chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure you could, but it makes no difference to me.”

Lydia gave him a shark’s smile, feeling the electric hum of synapses ready to fire, and she held the glass a little more tightly, ignoring the way it sliced into her palm. “Doesn’t it?”

Peter met her eyes. “No, Miss Martin, it doesn’t. See, you could control _armies_. You could have all of the power in the _world_ and it would make no difference because it wouldn’t change that one special thing about you that drew me to you in the first place.” He propped himself up on his elbows and the glass cut into the soft flesh of his neck as he leaned in. Lydia’s heart leapt in her throat as Peter’s lips brushed the shell of her ear and he lowered his voice in an intimate whisper. “Because as strong as you are, you’re weak in all the ways that count.”

Terror and fury warred inside of Lydia and she pulled away from him, hissing fiercely, “I will show you!”

But Peter just laughed and then he was gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are the sources of the articles I refer to: 
> 
> http://psycnet.apa.org/journals/bul/132/4/529.html
> 
> http://web.ebscohost.com/ehost/detail?vid=2&sid=0812d99e-d760-4631-afc4-acf8832b419f%40sessionmgr110&hid=123&bdata=JnNpdGU9ZWhvc3QtbGl2ZSZzY29wZT1zaXRl#db=aph&AN=7075416
> 
> http://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/13528165.2013.789238
> 
> http://web.ebscohost.com/ehost/detail?vid=2&sid=97cf332e-4508-4ea3-9bdb-7602afd370e2%40sessionmgr111&hid=124&bdata=JnNpdGU9ZWhvc3QtbGl2ZSZzY29wZT1zaXRl#db=aph&AN=7076288

**Author's Note:**

> As always, this is unbeta'd. Let me know if there are any mistakes! You can find me on Tumblr as thecomedownchampion.tumblr.com


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